Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

The blaze began slowly. As it climbed the pyre, the clapping accelerated in rhythm. Damp wood cracked and shot in the flames. The conflagration devoured the peak. A cry went up. As the fire began to roar, Storm felt a breeze rushing over his bare chest and heard a woman screaming like a cyclone. The priest went back and forth through the intense heat tossing liquid into the orange flames. It hissed and steamed, and he moved from side to side casting a blue shadow on the vapors.

From the trees all around came the waterfall sound of scrabbling claws and the curses of demons driven into the void.

More women screamed. The men howled. The jungle itself screamed like a mosque. Storm lay naked on his back and watched the upward-rushing mist and smoke in the colossal firelight and waited for the clear light, for the peaceful deities, the face of the father-mother, the light from the six worlds, the dawning of hell’s smoky light and the white light of the second god, the hungry ghosts wandering in ravenous desire, the gods of knowledge and the wrathful gods, the judgment of the lord of death before the mirror of karma, the punishments of the demons, and the flight to refuge in the cave of the womb that would bear him back into this world.

His poem whirled upward as an ash. It said:

VIETNAM

I bought a pair of Ray-Bans from the Devil And a lighter said Tu Do Bar 69 Cold Beer Hot Girl Sorry About That Chief Man that Zippo got it all across

Man when Fm in my grave don’t wanna go to Heaven Just wanna lie there looking up at Heaven All I gotta do is see the motherfucker You don’t need to put me in it

Turn the gas on in my cage I drink the poison Send me an assassin I drink the poison Dead demons in my guts I drink the poison

I drink the poison I drink the poison And I’m still laughin

Th e wind was sharp, the afternoon sun quite warm, at least for late April, at least for Minneapolis. On a good dry day she could walk a quarter mile without discomfort, sit and rest for only a minute, and walk just as far before resting again. She left her car in a parking lot and her cane in the car and strolled three blocks to the Mississippi and crossed by the footbridge. Its action as vehicles passed below shuddered along her shins. Both knees hurt. She was walking too fast.

With the Radisson Hotel in sight she stepped into Kellogg Street to cross, and a truck, one of those small rented moving vans, came close to knocking her down, braking hard, failing to stop, whipping around her so closely the red lettering on its side was, for onehalf second, all that existed. She leapt back, the blood sparkled in her veins—nearly dead that time.

She’d dropped her purse in the gutter. Going gently down on one knee in her polyester pantsuit, she suddenly remembered a time when the question of her own survival hadn’t interested her even marginally. That glorious time.

Ginger waited just inside the door of the coffee shop among potted ferns. One of those women everybody calls Mom, though she wasn’t any older than the rest. How long since then? Fifteen years, sixteen. Since Timothy had marched off to the Philippines, and Kathy had followed. Ginger had probably lived around Minneapolis for half a decade—both of them had, but had never made the effort.

“Can I still call you Mom?” “Kathy!” “Fve got to sit down.” “Are you all right?” “A truck almost hit me. I spilled my purse.” “Just now? —But you’re okay.” “Just out of breath.” Ginger looked around, waiting to be told where to sit. She’d gained

thirty pounds. Kathy said, “I’d have recognized you anywhere.” “Oh — ” Ginger said. “But you can’t say the same.” “Well, nobody’s getting any younger. What am I saying! It’s just that

it’s so good to see you, and …” The work of lying twisted her features.

She gave it up. “I’m a little worse for wear.” “It’s not crowded at all. Sunday.” “What about over there?” “By the window! No view, but at least—” “I’ve got about thirty minutes.” “At least there’s light. I mean there’s a view” Ginger said, “but all

we’re seeing is traffic.” “I’m supposed to make a speech.” “A speech? Where?” “Or some remarks. There’s a recital of some kind next door.” “Where next door?” “At the Radisson. In one of the convention rooms.” “A recital. You mean pianos and things?” “I hope they have decaf.” “Everybody’s got decaf now.” They ordered decaf coffee, and Ginger asked for a cinnamon roll and

immediately called the waitress back to cancel it. The waitress drew the

coffee from an urn and brought over two cups. “If you don’t mind very much,” Kathy said, “can I have a little real milk?” “Coming up,” the waitress said, and went away, and they didn’t see

her again. “What kind of recital is it?” “I don’t know. It’s a benefit for MacMillan Houses. For Vietnamese

orphans. So I’m on the chopping block.” “Oh, right. Did you write a speech?” “Not really. I just figured—I mean it’s only a sort of, ‘Thanks for the

money, now give us more.’ ” “The Eternal Speech.” “So I’m sorry we can’t have a proper lunch.” “No problem. I’m seeing a play across the river with John. A musical.

The Sound of Music.”

“Oh, that’s a good one.” “It is, it is.” “I’ve seen the movie.” “But I always thought it was a silly title,” Ginger said. “Because music

is already a sound, isn’t it? They should just call it Music.” “I hadn’t thought of that!” Ginger’s purse, a small one of soft gray leather, rested beside her cof

fee cup on the table. She opened it and handed Kathy the letter. “I’m

very sorry about this, Kathy.” “Well, no. Why? I don’t see why.” “It went to the Ottawa office and sat there a week. Colin Rappaport

found it—” “So you’re still with WCS.” “Still? Forever.” “How’s Colin?” “I guess he’s fine, but we don’t have any contact, not really. He re

membered you’d gone back to Minneapolis, and without calling or anything he just mailed it on to our office. I guess he tried finding your phone number, no luck. Plenty of Kathy Joneses, but he didn’t know your married name. Are you still married?”

“Still married. He’s a physician.” “Private practice?”

“No. The ER at St. Luke’s.” “I guess it beats Canada.” “Why?” “I don’t know. Socialized medicine, I mean, but I don’t know. I don’t

know what I’m talking about! … What’s your name?” “Benvenuto. What about you? Are you still with John?” “Yep. No changing that, I guess.” “It’s terrible! Asking after someone’s husband and saying, ‘Are you

still together.’ ” “Your husband isn’t Seventh-Day.” “Carlos? No. He’s all science.” “Oh, Carlos. Benvenuto.” “He’s Argentinian.” “How does he lean? I mean religiously.” “He’s all science. Not spiritual in any way.” “I’ve never seen in you in church. Where do you go? I mean …” “I don’t go anymore.” Tortured silence. Kathy noticed the large number of paintings on the

walls. Nonrepresentational art. This was an art café. “Have you fallen away?” “I guess I have.” Ginger still had that perpetually arch expression on her face, shaded

by fear—she’d always looked worried and defensive, on the brink of guilty tears, always looked about to confess she hated herself—a false impression, as she’d always been a friend to everyone. “Maybe you haven’t fallen away, Kathy. Maybe not exactly. Our pastor says the healthiest spirit is one who’s been through the dry places. But even in the dry places, the church can help. In the dry places most of all, don’t you think? Why don’t we go next Saturday? Come with me.” She actually had a wonderful face, ascending and plunging, taking you with it.